


Raise Your Glass

by sycamoretree



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Prompt Fill, alcohol stealing, humor and drama, inseparablesfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:05:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamoretree/pseuds/sycamoretree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The musketeers have a habit of stealing from Captain Treville's collection of alcohol. This story features 4 times each of the musketeers stole Treville's booze and 1 time he retaliated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raise Your Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Inseparablesfest (http://inseparablesfest.tumblr.com/) by filling a prompt from the BBCmusketeers kinkmeme (http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=2320829#cmt2320829)
> 
> "In fictions, brandy and cognac bottles obviously fill Treville's cupboards and are frequently emptied by the musketeers so... 5 times one of the boys stole/shared Treville's alcohol and one time Treville stole theirs."
> 
> Each part features five different liquids that existed at the time, according to my small research. Enjoy and comment on your thoughts about my story if you wish.

Aramis blanched when he recognized the bottom of the stairs before him in the dark night. He feared the prospect of being pushed and carried up to the balustrade in the garrison by his two best friends, and inevitably to Captain Treville’s office.

“I can’t…! I can’t stay conscious!” he swallowed while his sight blurred and the pounding, inflamed heat in his thigh grew until he could barely hear Athos unchecked voice.

“Do you want to lose your leg?! The bullet needs to come out _now_ , and we must stop the bleeding.”

Porthos grabbed Aramis by the waist and more or less hoisted him over the steps while Aramis’ head lolled and he partly groaned, partly gagged.

“Dammit, Aramis! You stay with us! Even if the physician is away doing who knows what when we need him the most,” Porthos warned and Aramis hung limply in his arms and the view from the balustrade was deeply off-putting when he was feeling this nauseous.

“Treville,” Athos announced even as he shoved the door open and marched inside, leaving room for Porthos and his burden to enter quickly. Aramis gave a hoarse chuckle at the sight of an empty armchair illuminated by one candle.

“Good. I wouldn’t want to present myself like this to my commander.” “Shut it,” a distraught Porthos exclaimed and shared an anguished look with Athos who swore, then stretched his arms out and cleared Treville’s desk of scrolls, documents, and ink-pots with one sweeping motion that sent all the important items falling to the floor.

“Lay him down here. I’ll fetch medication and tools.”

Aramis let out a tortured wail and clutched his thigh above the throbbing wound when Porthos set him down on his back on the hard table. Porthos comforted him with a tearful hush before wrenching Aramis’ smeared hands from the leg and securing them above his head.

“Hurry up! His body can’t take much more thrashing,” Porthos called and belatedly, Aramis noticed the pop of an uncorked bottle and shook his sweaty head when Athos approached with a haunted look.

“I expect you to stand by me when Treville unleashes his fury at us for taking his strongest spirit,” Athos said to Aramis but Aramis saw the pleading in those blue eyes.

 _Forgive_ _me_. _Please, survive this_.

Then Athos tilted the bottle and poured the liquid over Aramis’ wound. Aramis screamed in pain until he passed out and missed the entire operation that saved his leg.

 

* * *

 

Treville didn’t have to look far to catch the wayward Gascon who had been reported drunk and unable to complete his duties at the garrison.

Though, the young man was wise to consider his exposed state to the elements since he had chosen to sit against the archway between the garrison and the street; protected from snow and wind.

Treville sighed and strolled up to the drunk man. The commander took in d’Artagnan’s muddy boots, tangled hair, and flush cheeks visible above the edge of his cloak which was swept around his curled up form against the wall. D’Artagnan also held a familiar bottle at his hip, like a treasured sword.

Treville crouched on the ground despite protesting knees and tipped his head to gain eye contact with the drunk musketeer.

“I know it was you,” Treville stated and explained, “You left your pauldron on the desk after raiding my cupboards for some quality wine. I take it you were successful.”

Treville nodded at the green bottle with red drops carelessly running down the smooth, glassy surface.

“I don’t want to be a musketeer today,” d’Artagnan murmured and took another swig, a testament of his inebriation that dared him to ignore the insolent action towards his captain. Treville tried hard not to wince when d’Artagnan spilled more wine than he swallowed.

“They don’t make wine in Paris like they did in Gascony. There’re no spices and the wine is weak and not tasty. But this brand is adequate,” d’Artagnan told Treville even though the captain knew very well the richness of southern wine.

Treville yielded to the ache in his legs and sat down beside his sullen soldier.

“Gascony is a province famous for its good wine,” Treville began but was interrupted.

“Father died yesterday.”

The boy was blunt and so, Treville didn’t have to dance around the matter that troubled the young soldier.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s been two years since… And I forgot. I never went to church to pray for his soul, never thought of him through-out the day and I didn’t even have a mission as an excuse for my distraction. I make for a poor son. Father deserved better than me.”

Treville shook his head. “You know that isn’t true. And you don’t have to feel obligated to punish yourself now with abuse of wine and self-hatred.”

D’Artagnan lifted his face and wounded eyes pierced Treville’s heart.

“How would you feel if you were my father and I didn’t remember something as vital as the anniversary of your death?!”

“If that was the case, I wouldn’t berate my only son for living his life as a noble musketeer instead of grieving once a year. D’Artagnan, your father knows that you love him still. Love doesn’t depend on visits to churches or lit candles. I think you feel his presence in your heart. He will never truly go away even if you use your time on earth as you wish.”

Treville decided not to tell d’Artagnan that the bottle had been a gift from a general to his own father who had then passed it onto his son, to be preferably saved, or enjoyed at a worthy time when it was deemed suitable. The boy didn’t need more guilt than the one he would suffer through the next day when he understood he had stolen wine from Treville.

D’Artagnan hung his head and replied with misery, “I miss him so much.”

Moved by the loving and yet tortured soul beside him, Treville shifted closer and raised an arm which easily slid over d’Artagnan’s shoulders and cradled him gently.

“I know. All musketeers have seen death claim dear ones, be it family or comrades. It never gets easier to endure losses. But after grieving, remembering and living come hand in hand. Don’t linger in the past and pain yourself, d’Artagnan. Live in the present with your friends and have adventures like your father always wished for you.”

D’Artagnan gave him a small nod before he dropped his head against Treville.

Treville held onto d’Artagnan when the boy dozed against his shoulder and Treville could finally grasp the bottle from the younger man’s relinquishing hand. D’Artagnan would sleep easier if he didn’t hold a previously priceless but now empty and cold bottle.

 

* * *

 

Athos pursed his lips when he did a double take at the hoarded valuables that the two men around the table gambled for.

Upon finding his suspicion confirmed, he walked around Porthos’ hunched frame and leant down so his hat covered his face from the gaze of the other man occupying the table in the inn.

“You bet on Treville’s cognac? On those cards?” he hissed but kept his face neutral so the remaining opponent wouldn’t read his reaction after a glimpse at Porthos’ hand.

But Porthos could interpret the disapproval in his friend’s voice.

“Athos, you don’t understand. I need to win back that rosary.”

“Since when do you care more about religious trinkets than coins?” Athos asked with a line between his brows and Porthos dipped his head and murmured in direction of the small heap of winnings between his elbows on the table, "Aramis made a mistake when he tried his fortune earlier. He was forced to give up the rosary to pay his debt.”

Porthos then looked up at Athos with beseeching eyes to avoid further judgment for his vice of gambling.

“You should have seen his face when he gave the necklace to that man. I’m trying to fix this. And I know it’s bad that Aramis doesn’t take this as a lesson and accepts his loss, and that I stole from Treville to afford my gambling now, but the gold in that rosary raised the stakes. And I don’t exactly have jewels littering my chests. I had to get into this game one way or another.”

Athos leant his hip on the table and felt the need for a drink; proud of Porthos’ noble loyalty to a friend in need, but worried about the consequences of deceitful theft from their captain.

“Neither do I own boxes with jewels, dear Porthos. It’s a very kind thing you’re doing for a friend by risking your own honour in the garrison, even if you’re being dishonest with another man. I hope you won’t you lose,” Athos admitted. 

Porthos worried his lip and asked, “Will you tell Treville?”

“Of course not. I trust you with that task, should you lose. But if you win and return the bottle… Well, what’s the harm if Treville never gets to miss his cognac? And I venture Aramis would be very happy to see his trinket again.”

“Thank you,” Porthos sighed, suddenly looking as if he had been more nervous about Athos’ opinion than the imminent expensive card game.

Athos clapped him on the shoulder, and used the support to stand up straight and leave Porthos to do his thing. While on his way, Athos leaned near Porthos’ ear, and muttered from the corner of his mouth and beneath the concealing brim of his hat, “Jack of spades, ten of hearts. Beware. The rest is rubbish.”

Porthos allowed himself a confident grin at the information from when Athos had spied the opponent’s cards from behind before he had subtly moved around the table to get to Porthos’ side. Athos knew like his friend that Porthos could handle a bluff.

 

* * *

 

They had waked at Athos’ side since the fever hit him. Last night had been the crucial moment before the fever finally broke and Athos was allowed proper rest.

However exhausted, with weak limbs and dark circles, Athos roused when Porthos tenderly dabbed his brow with a cool cloth in the early morning. To see his friend opening clear eyes now made Porthos relax his tense shoulders.

“Hello,” Athos sighed at him and received a smile.

“Welcome back, brother,” Porthos whispered and left the damp cloth on Athos’ forehead while gently guiding his chin up to inspect the patient.

“Feel alright?” Porthos inquired and searched Athos’ face for any discomfort but Athos merely stated a ‘yes’ and Porthos saw no reason to not believe him.

Porthos turned to the rickety small table next to the bed to prepare the drink by following Aramis’ previous instructions. From beside the chair Porthos was occupying, a hushed question came from Athos.

“Why has my room been turned into a laundry?”

Porthos snorted at the mentioning of the many sheets and blankets hanging from the ceiling, left for drying.

“Your insistence of trying on the sweating disease left us no choice but to wash your sheets often. I think that hard labour more than the wake is what exhausted Aramis and d’Artagnan.”

Porthos jutted his thumb in direction of the other two sleeping men sitting leaned against each other by the window. They shared a blanket and large parts of both their long legs were left uncovered.

Athos made a soft sigh and remarked, “Will you never leave me alone so you don’t work yourself into the ground while I’m only sleeping? You needn’t keep guarding me in shifts.”

Porthos frowned and sent a serious glance at Athos who wisely shut up when he noticed the truth of his health.

“We would never abandon a brother who needs us to care for him. We feared we would lose you yesterday. So don’t berate us for staying and empty this damn cup,” Porthos growled with more worry than true anger.

He then utterly gently grasped the back of Athos’ neck with one hand and lifted him a little while he pushed more pillows under Athos’ back and head so he could be supported in a position between sitting up and lying down. Then he took the filled cup and tipped it to Athos’ parched lips and let him sip a little on the cool drink.

Athos made a querying sound and asked after swallowing, “Not water?”

“You haven’t eaten anything for days and barely managed to keep down water. Aramis deemed it better we give you nourishing cider. You need to get your strength back after the illness has ebbed away.”

Athos smacked his chapped lips and a vigour returned to his face that differed from the unhealthy flush from before.

“I can taste apples.”

“Good, huh?” Porthos smiled, placated now that Athos didn’t object foolishly to his care.

Porthos gave him a bit more to drink. Once he moved away the cup a second time, Athos commented neutrally, “Cider in the summer must be expensive. This was made from last year’s apples. Such cider is hard to come by this time of the year.”

Porthos shrugged but felt his palm begin to turn damp against the metal of the cup. “You have a sponsor, I suppose.”

Athos managed somewhat to raise one eyebrow. “Oh? Does this sponsor know what he’s sponsoring?”

Porthos mumbled back, “Not really, but I don’t think he’ll object when we make sure you recover and return to duty as soon as possible.”

Athos sighed but kept sipping on the sweet cider. In between small sips, he described to Porthos the appreciated taste of Normandic apples that reminded him of careless days in the garden of his childhood home at la Fère. Porthos could see how the cider brought his friend peace and nourishment that withdrew him from the brink of death. Porthos sent a grateful thought to the unknowing sponsor.

 

* * *

 

Treville hid behind a tree while watching the infamous four musketeers sitting on a grassy patch by the Seine outside Paris and sharing food they had brought. They were all celebrating the anniversary of Aramis' commission. For ten years he had served king and country as a musketeer and that accomplishment deserved attention. Treville had listened in on the men's planning and promptly followed that morning when they rode out of the city while conversing merrily.

However, Treville hadn't authorized the men's free day to stay behind and let them feast by themselves. He cared for all of them, and the way Aramis' eyes now sparked when his friends laid out a buffet of meals on a blanket on the ground warmed the captain's old heart.

For now, Treville stayed concealed by the bark of an oak and took in the scene.

Porthos raised a brown bottle from his bag so quickly that a sloshing noise came from the content of the bottle. "Only the best for the best, and oldest musketeer!"

At the sight of the drink, Aramis perked up while d'Artagnan wove an arm around his raised knee and wondered hesitantly, "I reckognize that bottle. Did you steal from the Captain again?"

Athos glared at Porthos while the large man shrugged and just kept placing four cups on the blanket as if it didn't bother him that he was being accused of a disgraceful crime.

"I can't help but liberating neglected liquid that no-one will drink from Treville's office," Porthos stated calmly.

Treville didn't know what should anger him more: the fact that d'Artagnan was in his cupboard often enough to memorize what Treville put there, or the fact that his musketeers seemed indifferent and entitled to taking what belonged to the man who could have all of them thrown out of the regiment.

Not that Treville would let base  feelings rule over the sense to keep four talented soldiers. Nevertheless, he could almost feel how his hair turned more grey.

Aramis scrunched his nose in distaste and remarked, "Stolen is such an ugly word. I prefer creatively acquired."

"Well, trust you to turn thieving into poetry, old friend," Treville answered stiffly and stepped out from the shelter behind the tree.

Four gasps met him, four pairs of wide eyes, and Porthos' hand jerked so the bottle popped and flew towards the river. With the angle of the bottle, some white wine inevitable ran out and wetted Porthos' fingers. The man swore and raised the bottle and failed to make an attempt to hide it behind his back.

Treville shook his head at their poor reactions to unexpected interuptions and came to a halt beside the blanket, wearing an amused look on his face. He crossed his arms for good measure.

"I salute you, dear Aramis, the oldest musketeer under my command above grass. May you see more days like this than horrors of war. And you should value your friendship with me like you do with your fellow musketeers."

Aramis swallowed and waved his hat in front of his red face to fan away some heat. "Captain! You... You remembered my anniversary! I thought you wouldn't want to celebrate me, so I didn't think to invite you today. But... you followed us anyway?"

Treville snorted and dug his boot into the dry ground. "Of course I hadn’t forgotten. I thought I would for once willingly gift you a bottle from my collection. But understand my disappointment when I found my collection plundered as ususal and the bottle in question gone."

Treville wasn't above admitting that he enjoyed watching the soldiers squirm and display deep shame for having been caught after their many thefts.

Athos looked mortified under the scrutiny from his commander, d'Artagnan twisted restlessly in guilt, probably fearing for his commission. Porthos picked on the label on the evidence in his hands and murmurred apologies, wheras Aramis worried his lips and seemed lost for words.

After a moment, Aramis straightened his back and looked up at Treville. "It was my fault, Captain. I took the first bottle three years ago. Then it all seemed to become... not a habit, but a last resort, if you will. We wanted to replace the bottles we took each time, but the bottles you buy are difficult to afford. So... our intentions were good, sir?"

Treville raised his eyebrows at Aramis' flailing verbal attempt to lessen the blow when he was ready to meet whatever punishment Treville would come up with. But he felt in a good mood and didn't want to ruin Aramis' day, and so, he unpacked a small stone jug from his bag and gestured with his free hand to the brown bottle in Porthos' lap.

"To be honest, I'm not mad. You had your reasons for borrowing my liquor. So I propose you drink that now that you've carried it all the way out here, and uncorked it. Serve it, Porthos."

The men relaxed somewhat, and began to smile more when Treville sank to his knees on the blanket and placed the ale before him.

"I'll join you, gentlemen. And I took the liberty of purchasing ale in honor of our good man Aramis. I'll share this with you." Aramis lefted the cup Porthos gave him and pointed at the content while replying, "With our refined senses we prefer this for now, sir. Late we might settle for your ale, but doo feel free to enjoy the food."

Treville nodded his understanding and was grateful the men only had four cups and couldn't share his own wine with him. He saw them taosting for Aramis and taking a mouthful each, and promptly sputtering and spraying liquid over the surprised flowers beside the blanket.

Grimaces, shudders, and groans of disgust met Treville's attentive eyes while he rested back on the heel of his hand and smirked at the pitiful musketeers who stared in bewilderment into their cups.

“Really," Treville taunted, "you thought I always was one step behind? Of course I knew you frequently took my bottles, and neglected to punish you for it, since you often had a good reason for thieving. Still, this time wasn’t an emergency or tragedy, so therefore I took the liberty of seasoning the wine with vinegar. I rarely drink white wine anyway, so I thought this could go to Serge’s pots as vinegar essence.”

Porthos was the first to comprehend that Treville had succeeded in creating a revenge for them all, and had the decency to laugh in admiration. "Well, you certainly got us, Captain. We never suspected wine being tampered with when it came from your excellent collection."

“So I get no present for you, Captain?” Aramis pouted though, and looked truly sad and regretful of all the times he had stolen drinks from Treville who might have condoned but never outright permitted the lending of alcohol from his personal collection.

Treville held up the jug in triumph. “That’s why I brought the ale. I gather you all wish to rinse your mouths by now and besides, ale is far cheaper for me than wine.”

All the men began to chuckle from both relief and embarrassment even if Athos remained flushed with an amount of shame. With the ale poured into the four cups and some kept in the container for Treville's benefit, they all toasted for Aramis without joking. Although, the younger musketeers sipped precariously before knowing for certain that the ale wasn't poisoned as well.

Pleased with the taste, the five men drank, celebrated, and shared dear memories of the careers in the service of the King of France. It was truly a fine summer day to share drinks with friends.

**Author's Note:**

> The line ""Stolen is such an ugly word. I prefer creatively acquired" is borrowed from the series M*A*S*H, spoken by Klinger.


End file.
